


The Pale One

by Roverandom



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dale - Freeform, Dwarves, Elves, Erebor, F/M, Humans, Romance, Speculative, post-hobbit events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roverandom/pseuds/Roverandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur has recently moved to Erebor and is trying to pick up the pieces after the battle of five armies and move on with his life, hoping to set up a toy shop in Dale. Even though the dust has settled, tensions between the races of humans, elves, and dwarves are still high. This is only aggravated when  Malweth, an albino elf, appears at Erebor to help with the restoration process. The dwarves are suspicious, but Bofur is intrigued. Meanwhile, the humans in Dale are starting to get restless about when their own city will be restored, even with supposedly large sums of money funding the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BOFUR

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic written in the style of GRRM's a Song of Ice and Fire. There are a lot of original characters because Tolkien is very quiet about what happens to the dwarves after the events in the Hobbit. I hope you enjoy the read!

BOFUR

 

When he heard the bell ding above his doorframe, Bofur didn’t have to look up to see was leaving. Molly, the mop-haired human orphan girl from down the road, was one of his most regular and loyal customers, even if she had never spent a coin in it. She didn’t need to. Bofur would have to live several lifetimes in great excess before he ever felt it was necessary to start asking an orphan girl for financial assistance.

“Good night, lassie. See you back in tomorrow.”

“Bye, Bofur sir. Don’t stay up too late this time!”

“Aye, I’ll try not to.”

The door closed behind him and all at once he could hear the creaks of the walls and sputterings of gears that he had tuned out while Molly had been inside, talking noisily to herself and messing about in her little ‘corner’ of the shop. Bofur had to regulate her to that corner or else she would have taken over the whole shop, the little fusspot that she was. There was something off with the girl, Bofur knew, but he didn’t know quite what it was. Well, other than having no family that was alive. That had to be enough to do the girl’s head in a bit, but it was more than that. She liked to fixate on things, much more than the average child. When Bofur first opened the shop Molly had stood outside the window gaping at what was on display for at least an hour before she even stepped inside. Then she had followed Bofur around in the shop like he was a mother hen, and when Bofur had decided to give the little ones a demonstration by taking one of the music boxes apart, he had never seen a child sit so still and be so fascinated with every small thing he was doing. From then on, Bofur had a regular visitor to the shop, even if all she did was sit down and play with the toys for hours on end, holding one-sided conversations with herself. As far as Bofur could tell, she did not have many real friends. So he didn’t mind that Molly spent most of her time here. It kept her out of trouble anyway, and it kept the shop from feeling too empty. With Bifur involved in all the behind the scenes work and Bombur busy with his large brood at home, Bofur was left with the responsibilities on the front end. And then some.

Bofur took one look at the large stack of letters that had amassed into an intimidating pile on his writing desk and sighed. He shifted his weight in the hard wood chair and groaned when he felt a sharp pain in his lower back. He would need to get some ruddy seat covers for these blasted things. He wanted to just throw them out in the first place but Bombur would have none of it. They belonged to their grannie and had made the journey all the way from the Blue Mountains, so Bofur reluctantly agreed that he would fix them up and bring them over to Bombur’s for the next new year celebration. He didn’t know why they didn’t just commission a new set of chairs from one of the master carpenters now living back in Erebor. Thorbar or Dwidina would be more than up to the challenge, but then again they were probably working on more important things: like repairing the ceiling rafters in the grand halls.

‘The Time of the Dwarves is Here Again.’ That was the slogan they had all come up with to motivate people in the reconstruction process. Perhaps he was starting to go a bit crazy, but he didn’t feel as though that was true at all. Especially when every day it was harder and harder to even get out of bed. But then there were the little ones: the orphans like Molly who had no home other than his toy shop, and he kept going. For them.

He started to sift through the piles of letters and frowned when he saw who they were from. A crease in the middle of his forehead deepened the further he went down in the pile. He started to simply set them aside, with the intent of looking at them more closely later, in an effort to find something he actually wanted to open, but the set aside section just turned into another large pile that he would have to sift through, so he just started throwing them straight into the bin. It’s not like he had to read them. He knew what they would all say already.

_Dearest Bofur,_

“I’ve never met you before in my life, lassie. And you call me dearest. Right then.”

_It is my deepest wish to visit you this week if time permits._

“Why? So you can ask me how much I keep stored away in the basement or buried underground somewhere? I’d rather go back to mining full time.”

_I just find your moustache so attractive. I hope you don’t mind me being blunt._

“Really? You certainly weren’t blunt when you told me I would be more ‘attractive’ if I ‘just grew out a beard’ as if that’s the easiest thing in the world.”

_The heroism you showed in battle is such an inspiration to the community._

“Not my family’s new-found wealth, then? That’d be a first.”

Irritated at this inner monologue, he got up and took the only two letters he would actually read: a reply from the Dale city council about his permit request and a flyer for a community bake sale. Bombur might be interested.

“Bugger this. If I’m to get a headache, I’ll have it with fifth of Blue Mountain Silver.”

 He was tired of being in the shop. Even though he agreed he’d be the one to manage the front end of the business, he was not used to being cooped up in one place. In some ways, even though mining was more dangerous and more closed in, he had felt more freedom in that profession. But now he had a responsibility to present a good face for the Ur family in the humans’ city. Now he was a role model, of sorts. Now, he had attention in the form of letters and social calls from people who all wanted something from him. At first, he had been pleased with the attention, as anyone would. But over time, when he realized that these were the same people — his own people at that — who had snubbed him for more noble folk, the joy he felt from their attention started to sour and turn poisonous inside of him. And he hated that. He hated not feeling like he could trust people’s good intentions; he hated that he was expected to somehow be appreciative for all this newfound fame. But more than all of that, he hated his hatred of it.

He winced as he walked up to the front door, checking the display cases and stopping at the cash register to make sure he emptied it out for the end of the day. _Not this pain again. It will do my head in, I swear to the Maker. I think I might actually take up Dori’s offer to test out that herbal concoction he came up with. What have I got to lose? Ow! Bloody back._

As if to drive the point home, he felt another sharp bolt of pain, stronger than he had experienced in a while, and his knees buckled as he cried out, bending down backwards and gripping the counter for support. At the same time, he heard a loud crash coming from the front and the shattering of glass. He felt a thud against the counter and the disturbance distracted him from the pain for a moment. His head shot up, and he felt for the key that he kept behind the counter. Once he had it, he crept along the back of the counter until he felt it was safe to scuttle past the open part of the room to reach one of the cabinets he kept locked up. Inside were several throwing axes and his mattock. He took one of the throwing axes and then locked the cabinet back up.

“Who’s there? Come out you cowardly vandal and face me!”

He stalked forward, the shards of glass breaking underneath his thick leather boots. When no one responded, he opened the door and stepped into the chilly air. Spring had finally started to push back the reaches of winter’s icy fingers, but winter had not surrendered just yet. He shivered and watched how his breath formed small puffs of vapor and then dissipated almost immediately after they had appeared.

“That’s right,” he shouted at the night sky. He needed to yell at something. “You’d better run. But you won’t be able to hide out forever. I’ll find you. I’ll find you and then you’ll regret ever messing with my family’s shop.”

He waited a bit longer, perhaps hoping that someone might magically appear somewhere and could be done with it right then and there. Wouldn’t that be nice. _I may have a bad back but I can still throw straight._ His shoulders slumped, resigned to the fact that there was nothing more he could do, but as he turned around to head back into the shop and clean up, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped in that direction and he raised his throwing arm out of instinct. His arm stayed when he focused in more on what was ahead of him: a greyish blur of a figure draped in cloth that seemed to be moving, but on its own, even though the figure itself was stationary. As he strained harder to try to see more details, he realized that it was slowly moving forward, growing larger in the horizon as it grew closer. It appeared to him that whoever it was had to be doing this without moving their body at all, as if they were standing on a moving track. Bewildered, but not wanting to lose his only lead, he took several quick steps forward and was about to break into a run when he heard someone else call out.

“Bofur! Hey there, Bofur! What happened?”

It was Higgs, the tailor who worked down the road. Bofur was surprised that he was still working this late.

“Higgs, don’t bother yourself. It was just a vandal who is too cowardly to show their face to someone who doesn’t give into intimidation.” When Bofur turned back to face the apparition he had seen, expecting it to be much closer now, he was shocked to find that nothing was there at all. They were gone. Just like that. _Oh Mahal… you give me a bad back and now I have to worry about my sanity as well?_

“Are you sure?” Higgs said when he finally caught up with Bofur. He was breathing heavily. “I heard a noise that sounded like someone was breaking in. I didn’t want you to get robbed.”

Bofur turned to Higgs, trying to hide the fear in his face. “I thank you kindly, Higgs. You didn’t have to. Don’t you have a little one to look after? I don’t want you being late.”

“Nonsense. Let me help you clean this up. You’ll need a witness too for the security report.”

Bofur closed his eyes. _Bloody papers and reports and queues. ‘Security’ isn’t much of a concern when it doesn’t have to do with the rebuilding of the city. Bloody hell, I didn’t need this._

“Very well,” he said. “If you insist.”

 

Back in the shop, Bofur surveyed the damage. A stone the size of the back of his hand lay sprawled on ground, surrounded by glass, but thankfully there had been no damage done to the window frames. He could repair this easily. Everything else remained untouched, save for a few scuffs on the wood floor. He knew that this was a carefully planned attack. Nothing had been tampered with, not even the glass displays which housed the more expensive pieces.

“Look,” Higgs said, bending down to pick up the object that had caused the wreckage. “There’s something on here.”

Apprehensive, Bofur watched as Higgs untied the twine and folded open a piece of parchment. As Higgs read, he looked up at Bofur with wide eyes. “Well? What does it say?”

Higgs kept his eyes down, but Bofur could clearly see his jaw clench. “Come on then. I’m expecting it to be bad. I think if someone wanted to write me a fan letter they’d sent it along with the stack I got today.”

“I’m sorry, Bofur. Let me just say this is not representative of Dale as a whole. Whoever wrote this is not a true citizen of Dale.”

Bofur swallowed hard as he took the note and glanced at it. One quick look was enough.

_THIS IS A CITY OF MEN, NOT HALF MEN. DOWN WITH THE DWARVES._

“I’ll put that note in a sealed bag as evidence,” Higgs said. “and we’ll take it to the council.”

“What good will that do?” Bofur said, setting the note and stone aside. He felt as though he should be more angry about this, but somehow, reading the note made it worse. Now, he had to deal with the fact that a literate, seemingly educated person wrote this. _I think I was better off thinking it was something out of the supernatural that caused this._ “Are they really going to listen to me complaining when they’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“This was a hate crime!” Higgs said, his face reddening.

“It was an isolated instance. If there was more hostility towards me and my people I think we’d come to blows over it much sooner. Have you seen the markets on the weekends? It’s eighty percent dwarves over humans.”

“That’s what I’m saying! Clearly, it’s causing some bigoted people to become violent. We have to let the council know so they can nip this in the bud, before someone gets hurt.”

Bofur sighed. Maybe two fifths of whiskey tonight would be a good idea. “No, you’re right. This isn’t good, no. Especially not good for business. I’m going to have to temporarily shut down the shop for now until I figure out what’s going on. Well, I guess I know what I’m doing tomorrow.”

“I’ll write down a statement of what I heard and saw,” Higgs said. “And you should probably contact your leaders in the mountain. If they can put pressure on the Master of Laketown that would only help speed this along.”

“I sure hope you’re right, Higgs. I sure hope you’re right.”  Somehow, he wasn’t so sure this was an isolated incident after all, and the sickening feeling in his gut only grew worse. 


	2. THE PALE ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introduction of Malweth. I don't know why this is formatted differently than the first chapter (it was written in the same version of word. Sorry about that!)

THE PALE ONE

 

It was officially her second name day, but to her, it just might as well be any other day. _My name won’t change. It only changes when you have someone to officially change it for you._

She had always been an oddity. There had been no elves born for four-hundred years when she materialized on the outskirts of Thranduil’s kingdom with no name, red eyes, and no traces of a family anywhere. It was as if her birth parents were just as surprised as everyone that they had managed to conceive offspring, and when they saw what kind of offspring they had created, they just couldn’t deal with it.  The elders were baffled. At first, they nearly denied her very existence. But, as if to spite them, she lived. She survived. So they had to give her a name. Malweth, she was called — The Pale One. Even if there was someone to give her another name, she knew that she would only ever been known as that: the pale one. The anomaly. The one who shouldn’t exist. The youngest elf alive, and look at what a specimen. Pale-yellow, pigment-less skin. Bloodshot eyes that squeezed shut in pain when exposed to bright light. Stunted height, barely taller than the average human woman. Or worse, barely taller than a dwarf. No wonder the time of the elves was fading. Just look at her.

            “Shh, it’s here.”

            “Where?”

            “Don’t look. And lower your voice.”

            “Is it her name day?”

            “Who knows? For all we know she just shows up here at every name day.”

            “Shh, stop making me laugh she’ll hear us.”

            They covered their mouths to try to hide the snickering, but she could hear them just fine. They weren’t really making an effort to lower their volume when they saw her walk in. _I should be used to this by now. I shouldn’t let it bother me, but when they start laughing I can feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck, and then I feel like wanting to die._ It was bad enough that her face was so pale nearly every vein was visible, but when she blushed it was even worse. The stark contrast of red and pale yellowish white made her a beacon of embarrassment that could be seen from most distances, even if she tried to disappear into a crowd.

            “Quiet, all of you.” One of the elders picked up on the noise and had now turned her attention to face Malweth and the small crowd around her. Malweth felt her insides twisting up. The elder would surely call even more attention to her now. _If only I had been born a skin changer instead of an albino. I would still be a freak but at least it would be a beneficial mutation._

            “Malweth? Are you all right?”

Those were the words she had dreaded to hear. Every chair in the room squeaked as they all turned around to look at her. Before, they had been blissfully unaware of her presence. Malweth wished she had the guts to storm out so she wouldn’t be subjected to more humiliation, but there was no point. It would only make matters worse and give them something more to talk about.   _I won’t give them the pleasure_.

            “No, ma’am.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. _Could you sound any more pathetic?_

            “Speak up, Malweth. And why aren’t you up near the front? Isn’t today your second name day?”

            Mortified and not daring to look her in the eye, because in order to do so she’d have to first look through a wave of judgmental gazes, she simply nodded as a reply.

            “If that’s the case, where’s your guardian? They need to give you your adult name.”

            That’s because he died in a routine scouting trip. Lumdir. The guard who took pity on her and gave her a home when no one else would. He was the closest thing she had to a father, and now he was gone as well. _Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am cursed. Everyone I get close to dies._

            “He… “ her voice cracked and she did little to hold back the tears. Try as she might, she could not think about Lumdir and not cry. She remembered the last thing he said to her before he went on that trip.

_“Don’t slack off while I’m gone. You’ve got your history lessons to do. I’ve laid them all out for you. History is one of the greatest things a young elf can learn.”_

But History lessons could not save Lumdir, and it could not help her make friends, nor could it convince them that she was smart enough to study at the great library in Imladris. Only the most ‘esteemed’ elves get to study along side Lord Elrond, they had told her. Perhaps she could divert her energy into more ‘worthwhile’ endeavors. Worthwhile. A likely story. They just wanted her to give up and accept her role as the oddity to be prodded, and poked, and analyzed. Well. She would not give up.

“He’s no longer here. There is no one here to present my name.” she heard another snicker from the corner of the room, and she couldn’t take it anymore. From somewhere deep down, she mustered up a small semblance of courage and forced herself to look up at the elder, avoiding the temptation to look at everyone else from the corner of her eye. _I do not need their judgment now. I reject it, just as I reject this poisonous place and these empty-headed people. I owe them nothing._

            “I don’t need a new name, ma’am. From now on, I’ll just be Malweth. The Pale One. From now on, I’ll make a new name for myself.”

 

*     *     *     *

 

            How easy, it seemed to her at the time. To break off from the norm and try to carve out a new life for herself. If she had only known. The loneliness. The despair. The dark paths her mind would go. The darker they became, the surer she was convinced that this would be the time when she would give up and go back. Beg Thranduil for forgiveness and to be allowed to live in comfort once again. She would still be miserable, but at least she wouldn’t be alone anymore. Eventually, she got used to it, even if she would never fully embrace it. Eventually she earned the trust of mortals around her, and was able to make a living by hunting and tracking for them. When she got bored of it, she would move onto a new place and start over. First, she would be alone. Then she would watch, wait, and take note of everything she saw. She would recognize faces. Remember names. She learned when their festivals were. What gods they worshipped. She saw what people were buying and took note of it. Then, she would set up a little place outside their village or town, and she would slowly earn their trust. It was tedious at times, but it was better than being rejected by her own people. She was her own person now, and she was stronger than ever. Despite all that, and despite being over eight-hundred years old, she still wasn’t sure she was completely satisfied with where her life was headed. Maybe that’s why she was standing at the gates of the last place she expected to be: Erebor. The greatest kingdom of dwarves in the third age. She had tried many times to try to establish a relationship with the dwarves, but had failed so far. They simply could not trust her, an elf. Even if she was her own entity. Even when she swore she had not stepped in an elven realm for half of her life. Even when she said she had information that could help them. It did not matter. She was an elf, and an elf was bad news. And yet, here she was again. When she heard that Erebor had been reclaimed she seized it as an opportunity to try again. She could show them that she was different.

            “State your business,” said a gruff dwarf from inside the gates.

            “Yes, excuse me, I know it’s getting late, but I was supposed to meet with the esteemed Balin this afternoon?”

            Malweth tugged on the top of her long, draping hood to keep it covering most of her face as she spoke to the dwarf guard. She didn’t want to be shut out at the gate before I had a chance to speak with Balin. She could hear sneezing from behind the gate and some general muttering. There was more than one guard looking her over to make sure she wasn’t some con artist, no doubt. With Erebor at the peak of its glory, there would be more than a few people trying to make a profit off the dwarves and their mountain of treasure. Maybe sneak out a doubloon or two. Nothing they wouldn’t miss. But Malweth didn’t care about money. She was after something far more precious: knowledge of the dwarven language. More than anything, Malweth loved languages and ancient texts. If she could manage to learn their well-guarded tongue, she could actually read some of the ancient texts she had stumbled upon in her travels. Perhaps they would even want them, and be thankful she had returned them. Or, they would demand them from her right away and deny her the training. She would have to work out a strategy for that later.

            “Are you a part of one of the crews from Dale? Where’s the rest of your group?”

            “I’ve just recently come from Dale, yes. I was speaking to Lord Balin’s emissary there. But I come of my own accord.”

            “What do you want with Lord Balin?”

            She did her best to not sound aggravated. This was all stuff that was contained in her letters to Balin and she didn’t really want to repeat every detail of her business out here in the open. “My business arrangement is mainly of a scientific nature, but I am willing to serve Erebor in any capacity, and to the best of my abilities, as Lord Balin sees fit. I suppose he is not in Erebor at present? I had planned to meet him in less than five minutes.”

            There was some more grunting, then a silence. She waited patiently. She was good at waiting.

            “So you’re not a human from Dale, then? What is your name and I will send a page to Balin for you.”

            She hesitated, but there was no use trying to be evasive. That would make things worse. “I’m known as Malweth.”

            There it was. A louder, more pronounced growl from the group behind the gate. They did not like this. Not one bit. She was not surprised to hear their reaction, but she had hoped to be on the other side of the gate when she revealed her racial identity.

            “An elf.”

            “One that has had contact with Lord Balin and who was asked to be here for this appointment. He knows that I do not carry banners for any elf king or queen. I am my own entity and have been for quite some time.”

            It was bold, but she was getting desperate. There was another deafening silence and then the little wooden window cut into the gate that the main guard had been using to speak to me slammed shut. For a brief moment, she was afraid that she had been rejected, but moments later, there was the loud clanking of gears as the smaller, inner gate to the palace was being opened. Fueled with encouragement, she bowed gratefully to them and kept her head ducked down to walk inside.

            “Stay here,” the guard said. “I need to search you while the page checks in with Lord Balin.”

            She feared they might want to do that. Her shoulders slumped when she realized that she would have to deal with revealing her stark white face to them earlier than she had hoped. Resigned, she untied the leather straps of her hood and let it fall back over her head. The guard who said he needed to search her widened his eyes in surprise, then he exchanged a confused glance with the other guard. That one stole a quick glance at Malweth, but when her gaze met his, he jerked his head away out of fear. She could only look at them apologetically. Thankfully, the page returned so she wouldn’t have to explain anything right there.

            “Is this the pale one?” he said.

_Of course I would already be known as that here. Word must travel fast underground._

“Balin is expecting her. Come with me, elf.” He sneered that last bit, but it was better than being ogled at. “He has many questions for you. As do we all.”


	3. DIMANA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimana, a female dwarf with a love of history and ancient texts, is starting to regret that she took up a post as Ori's underling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After writing this, I found that I was wrong about Balin becoming King Under the Mountain (it was only speculation on my part), so I do apologize for this departure from canon.

DIMANA

 

_The sun was setting, and it was starting to get cold, but the grass was still warm underneath her feet. There was a chill in the breeze that made her shiver, but she still had the crocheted shall that Dori had given her on her birthday. She pulled it closer and listened to the cackle of the ravens that were beginning to return to their favorite place to roost. She hadn’t told them she’d be gone this time, but she didn’t care. She liked walking on grass instead of hard stone all day. She liked being able to runaround barefoot, even if it meant shivering a bit. More than that, she liked the solitude. Here, on these rolling green hills, she didn’t have to make excuses, or second-guess herself, or try to get a word in edgewise. She could just enjoy the peace and quiet. Just for a little while, this piece of the earth belonged to her._

            “Dimana! Oh, Dimana, hurry! Don’t tell me you forgot again, Dimana!”

            The loud and persistent knocking at her door jolted her out of her happy dream and was an unfortunate way to wake up, especially since she had promised Ori that she would try to be better at oversleeping. Since she was shadowing him, it was very important that she put her best foot forward and try to impress him. Being belligerently late would most certainly do the opposite of that, but was it really necessary for Ori to mark her down when she was just five minutes late? _Perfectionists. Something’s wrong with their heads, I say._ But then again, Ori was the chief scribe and archival custodian, so maybe there was something to this perfectionist thing. Well, and he was also one of the Esteemed Thirteen — i.e., the saviors of their whole race. _Yes, yes, he’s a hero and all that but does he have to be so stingy? And the way he corrects everything I do, ugh. I might as well not do anything._ Perhaps she was being unfair towards him now, as she rubbed her eyes and fumbled for her work outfit in her wardrobe. It didn’t help either that she was really more of a night person and Ori was obnoxiously cheerful in the morning. Like how he was right now. _Can knocking be described as being cheerful? Oh no, I’m losing my mind now I’m so tired._

            “Hang on, Ori,” she called out as she finished lacing up her boots. “Or would you rather me run to our meeting half-dressed?”

            She smiled as she heard his flustered reply from behind the door.

            “Wha—why would you ever insinuate such a thing? I would never! Wait, hang on. I know what you’re doing. You’re just trying to distract me! I’ll have none of that, Miss Dimana. We’re late enough as it is.”

            Dimana swung the door open to face a bewildered Ori who had started to also turn beet red. “Oh please, Ori. As if anything would distract you from getting your work done.”

When they were living in the Blue Mountains, before Thorin enlisted Ori and the others on the quest to reclaim Erebor, Ori had always been painfully shy. Before their move to Erebor, Dimana guessed that she only exchanged words with Ori several times, and most of the time he had elected to ignore her attempts at continuing the conversation by pretending to be absorbed in a book. As far as she could tell, though, it wasn’t like he was singling her out — apparently he was like this around all dwarven women. She knew that less than one third of all dwarves born were female, but scarcity alone should not cause anyone to actually freeze up and refuse to speak when in the presence of the opposite sex. _It’s not like we’re even that different so what’s the big deal?_ When she started her post with Ori after moving to Erebor, she saw that the journey had changed him a lot: he was much more confident and outgoing with new people, especially since his new title and responsibilities demanded it, but apparently he was just the same in his behavior around her and other dwarven women. _And why do I find that endearing for some reason?_ Perhaps it was because dwarven men were notoriously outspoken and blunt in their courtship methods, which was tiring for Dimana. If she was to find a husband, she’d much rather be the one to do the asking. Ori only hovered around when he was nervous about the quality of her work, and she realized she’d much rather have that kind of attention. At least she knew how to counter it.

            “So, shall we get going? What’s on the agenda today?”

            “Same as always, Dimana. And flattering me won’t make up for you being late.”

            She sighed. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I was just having a bit of fun, relax. Right then. To the archives!”

           

            The archives of Erebor were so vast and comprehensive that there was a whole separate district set aside for them. When the dragon Smaug attacked the city, there was little time for anything else other than trying to evacuate everyone, so nothing from the archives were taken, save for a few ancient texts that had immense cultural value to their culture and language. According to senior members of the community who could actually remember what the archives were like before the dragon’s reign of terror, there was little that had been destroyed or burned, which was quite remarkable. Dimana felt it was obvious: a dragon wouldn’t care about a bunch of musty scrolls when there was treasure to hoard. Unfortunately, due to all the commotion, the archive was in a horrible state of disarray when the dwarves finally settled back into Erebor. Cleaning, cataloging, and sorting the archives were also not high on the list of priorities for the restoration process, so when Ori agreed to take on the project he soon found it was going to take more than several lifetimes if he were attempt it on his own. So when he sent out a flyer asking for volunteers with the possible chance of promotion to assistant scribe, Dimana leaped at the chance. She was well past fifty and until then she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with her life. Delving into her people’s past, however tedious and confusing it might be, seemed to fit her perfectly. She’d be mostly alone, and she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. She had not, however, anticipated how ‘involved’ Ori would be in her work. She was less of an assistant and more like a… servant.

            “Right, we’ve got no time to waste,” Ori said when they got inside. “I want to you to get started cleaning up the third level basement.”

“Really?” She said, surprised. She hadn’t even been in that basement yet. That’s where the most ancient and vulnerable texts were stored. She didn’t think that Ori would trust her with that area so quickly.

 “Yes. I’ve taken the liberty of dividing it up in sections.” He handed her a folded piece of paper that had a crudely drawn map on it with several portions of it outlined in red and a list that almost took up the entire page on the side.

“I see,” she said, her eyes narrowing when she read the list. “You’ve been very thorough.”

“Of course. I can’t just send you down there with no instructions. Dear me, that would be catastrophic.”

“Naturally,” she said dryly. He didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “So I take it I won’t be handling any of the texts at all, is that right?”

“Not until they’re properly cleaned. And the first order of business is to teach you how to properly do just that.”

 _Oh here we go._ “Wonderful,” she said, straining her face with a forced smile. “This shouldn’t take long then if all you’re doing is showing me how to clean.”

“Oh I wish it were so easy, Miss Dimana. But in order to preserve texts that are hundreds of years old, you need the proper tools and the right sleight of hand. Sometimes it takes weeks to clean just one book!”

“Perfect,” she said, between clenched teeth. “I guess I know what I’m doing this week.”

“Don’t you just love this job, Dimana?” Ori chirped, oblivious to the daggers in her eyes. “The past is so fascinating!”

 _For you maybe… you’ll actually get to look through the books I spend hours cleaning. What’s that saying_ — _it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it? Ori’s version would be ‘it’s a dirty job so Dimana has to do it.’ Why did I want to take this job again?_

           

 

            When she was ready to check in with Ori on her progress that morning, it was already well past lunch. She had been so absorbed that she forgot about stopping to eat. Immediately, her stomach began to grumble. When she reached the ground floor to head over to Ori’s office, she heard the clanging of silverware. That’s when she also caught a whiff of something savory wafting from the front door. In response, her stomach growled so loud she was sure it echoed through the entire room. Ori’s head popped out from inside his office and his bug eyes widened.

            “Oh my, Dimana. Was that you?”

            She clutched her stomach, certain that it was starting to collapse in on itself for lack of food. “Yeah sorry about that.”

            “D-d-don’t be that’s not what I meant,” he sputtered rapidly as she got closer. “I was rather impressed, actually,” he said, but more under his breath.

            “And I’m impressed that you rant out and grabbed lunch. It completely slipped my mind.”

            “Oh, no,” he said. His eyes fell for a fraction of a second as she stepped through the doorway. “That wasn’t me. I’ve been busy trying to catch up with yesterday’s inventory list because I’ve had several last minute requests come in this morning. You have Dori to thank for the food.”

            On cue, Ori’s older brother turned around and set the large tray down on the desk in front of them. What she saw made her mouth water. On the tray sat two plates of steaming roast beef with fresh gravy, grilled baby carrots, red-skinned mashed potatoes with rosemary and cracked peppercorns, and boiled cabbage accompanied by a large mug of mead for each of them.

            “Wow,” she said. “This looks amazing. This was what was in the dining hall today? The cooks must have been feeling generous today.”

            Dori and Ori exchanged a nervous look.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest—wait, do you mean this is a home cooked meal? Dori, did you go out of your way to cook this for us?”

            “Oh heavens, no. I wish I could take the credit for this. But as you so astutely discovered, this is not one of our standard dining hall meals.”

            “Thank goodness,” Ori said.

            “Besides, the lunch hour is long over. No, these are actually from Bomber’s soup kitchen in Dale. I knew you two would be having another long day so I thought I’d bring you a nice hot lunch.”

            Dimana pulled up a chair and took his pause as an invitation to begin eating. When she took her first bite, her eyes bugged. “This… is from Bomber’s soup kitchen? Blimey, this is what the humans are being fed? No wonder they grow so tall.”

            “It’s not just for humans, it’s for everyone, but all the crews are coming in and out of Dale to help with the reconstruction in Erebor so he just figured it would be easier to set it outside closer to the city walls. Besides, this is a treat even for the soup kitchen.”

            “Why’s that?” Dimana said in between mouthfuls of meat and potatoes. She wasn’t much of a vegetable person, but she had a nibble of the carrots and found them just as savory as the potatoes.

            Dori wrung his hands for a moment, as though deciding on the best way to deliver bad news. It almost made her second-guess the meat she was eating, but she was too hungry to care. _Besides, if I die from this, I’ll at least die happy and full._

            “Well, one of the ranchers brought in an extra-large shipment yesterday. Apparently a huge percentage of his heard died mysteriously. They’re not sure why. Residuals of Smaug’s decimation, no doubt. A lot of the grazing lands were burnt to ashes. There were probably a lot of starving ones, the poor dears. I promise you there is nothing infectious in the meat. Eat up, eat up!”

            “Trust me, if there was something bad in this I would probably be feeling it already. I don’t even care. But why were you at Bomber’s again?  I thought Balin wanted you for some sort of census project? How’s that coming along?”

            “As well as you’d expect. We’ll probably need your support for that as well.”

            Dimana dropped her fork. “Are you serious? Have you seen our operation here? We’re understaffed as it is.”

            “Believe me,” Ori said, after downing a hefty gulp of mead and burping loudly. “I know. But what are we going to do about it? We’re kind of low on the priority list.”

            “Our people’s history is not important anymore? Is that it?”

            As soon as she said it, she regretted it. What she was implying — that one of the thirteen, one of the dwarves who risked their lives to recapture this place, the center of their people’s culture, wealth and history, was too absorbed in his power that he no longer valued these things — to imply that was a grave and dangerous insult. Ori snapped his head in her direction and she spoke before they could scold her.

            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, leaning back into the chair. “I didn’t mean it like that, I promise. I’m just stressed, is all. I know Balin is overworked and I know things take time. I really am grateful for this opportunity, please don’t misunderstand me.”

            “It happens, dear,” Dori said, but she could tell he was not as perky as he had been when she first stepped inside the room. _Why do you always bring people down, Dimana? Know when to speak and when to shut your cake hole!_ “But we’re all doing what we can.”

            “We’re all working hard,” Ori said, staring at his plate, which he had barely touched. “Harder than we’ve ever worked before. These things just have to be done.”

            “You’re right,” she said. “Of course.” A pained silence fell over the room, and in an effort to try to save the conversation, she took another generous bite of the meat. _Well I’m still hungry anyway. I’m not going to let a little awkwardness get in the way of a good meal._ “So,” she said after swallowing loudly. “How is Bomber doing?”

            “Oh he’s doing quite well,” Dori said. She watched as his mood slowly swing back to his cheery self while he talked. “There’s a new little one in the household so there’s another mouth to feed of course but Bomber does not seem to mind. Little ones are such a joy aren’t they? But they grow up so fast. The oldest is helping with the soup kitchen and he is shaping out to be just as good of a cook as his father. And good thing too, with everything that’s going on, not to mention the trouble with the toy shop that’s just happened. Goodness me.”

            “What, what? The toy shop? You mean the new one in Dale that Bofur manages?”

            “Yes that’s it. Oh, did you not hear? It’s a dreadful business, it is. And to think we assumed we were all through with violence.”

            Dimana dropped her fork again. This time it fell to the floor. “Violence? Dori, what happened?”

            “Calm down, dear, no one was hurt. But just the other night while Bofur was staying late, bless his heart he works too hard he does, why some terrible vandal threw a rock into the shop and broke one of the windows. Thankfully none of the merchandise was stolen, but there were some nasty words written on the rock. I don’t even want to repeat it.”

Dimana looked to Ori for further clarification. He just shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me either. Apparently it was some kind of slander against our people.”

“Bloody hell,” she said.

“Language, Dimana!” Dori chided, before continuing. “Bofur doesn’t really want to deal with it, with everything else that’s going on, but I told him he has to and he has our full support.”

            Dimana swallowed hard and tried to hide the panic in her face. She was glad that Bofur was not hurt, but he was one of the sweetest, most genuine people she had ever met. He didn’t deserve this.

            “Yes of course,” she said. “We will make sure this does not go unaddressed.”

            “Definitely. In fact, I think he’s planning to speak to Balin about it. Today, in fact.”

            “Oh really? What good can Balin do? He has no authority in Dale.”

            “No, but I think the reasoning was: as our newly appointed King in charge of a large gold reserve, he would have some swaying power in the decision making. He could make it clear that attacking an esteemed person in our community is attacking all of us.”

            “That’s true,” she mused, but even so, she had to wonder if it would only be a futile gesture. She wasn’t good about keeping up with local gossip, but even she couldn’t pretend to ignore the fact that tensions were still high between the humans of Dale and her people. After all, shortly after Erebor was reclaimed there was a sudden and large influx of new people to the area. Humans were used to being the dominant race in that city for more than two hundred years.  Suddenly, the dwarves make a reappearance and want their piece of the economic pie. Dale was a huge city for trade between the East and West. A good merchant could make a decent living if they could stand out among the competition. With the dwarves back in the trade business, there would be even more competition.

Most of the humans, especially the ones who were loyal to Bard, the hero who actually brought down the dragon, seemed amicable enough, but there had to be those who harbored bitter thoughts underneath a happy smile. From what she understood, Dale’s reconstruction was going a lot more slowly than Erebor’s, and there was bound to be more vocal dissidence when more people started to become aware of that imbalance. It didn’t make sense: almost immediately, Bard had been given his share of the treasure because he had been such an instrumental part of bringing the dragon down (he shot the killing blow after all), so a lack of money wasn’t the issue. Surely, how they handled their funds was _not_ the responsibility of the dwarves. However, maybe the humans still homeless and suffering did not see it that way.

            “Are you finished, dear? I can take your plate.” Dori said, reaching out his hand to her. 

            “Oh yes, thank you, Dori. This was amazing I can’t thank you enough. By the way, when did you say Bofur was coming over?”

            “When? Oh, I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

            “Ah. I just thought I might say hi. I haven’t seen him since his shop opened up.” She tried to say that as casually as possible, so as not to draw any attention to herself. In reality, she was trying very hard to remain calm. She wanted nothing more than to be done for the day so she could stop by and see him. She wanted to make sure he was really okay after the attack on the shop. Maybe she could help him even. That is, if he wasn’t surrounded by admirers. It was strange. Bofur had been a common dwarf before he became a hero, and it was clear that he wanted to stay that way after the fact. He seemed more uncomfortable around the attention. In her opinion, that only made him more attractive. When they had all lived at the Blue Mountains, Dimana had not known Bofur. He was a miner, and spent most of his time deep underground. Dimana was born as a ‘gentle dwarf’ and wanted to be a scholar. She had never scrubbed a floor until she arrived at Erebor. She only really got to know Bofur when she started working for Ori. Since he and Ori were close friends from all their adventures together, Bofur would pop over from time to time. He introduce himself to her and would always initiate the conversation whenever he was over, asking about her family and her time in Erebor.

She liked that he was always so easy to talk to. There was no awkwardness with him as there was with Ori or some of the other dwarven men who were always just trying to find an excuse to flirt. Oh, sure, Bofur was flirty but it was always in a jovial, relaxed way, as though he didn’t mind if his offers were turned down. Besides, he could have his pick of women if he wanted. Dimana didn’t consider herself to be ugly, but she was no beauty either. She had a smaller frame, a wispy, practically non-existent beard, and narrow shoulders. Her hair was thin and didn’t hold braids very well. She could craft basic things, like simple necklaces and bracelets, but it was nothing compared to what the master crafters sold in Dale. She was no warrior either, but that didn’t mean she could just be pushed around. She had been in her fair share of brawls and had managed to escape them with little more than a scratch.

            Unfortunately for her, the feelings of general good-will she felt towards Bofur rapidly progressed to something far more worrying. When Bofur asked her to dance with him at the first Durin’s Day feast since Erebor was reclaimed, she could not fight them back any more: she was completely charmed by him. Taking the invitation to dance as a good sign, she worked up the courage and asked him to come over for dinner sometime. The look on his face when she did made her want to shrivel up and die out of embarrassment.

            _“Oh I—for dinner? Well, that’s very kind of you I’m sure. I am pretty busy lately, unfortunately. Bifur wants me to get that shop going, and there’s a lot of paperwork to go through and turn in. Humans, am I right? They love their papers. Maybe another time?”_

            She could remember his words exactly and the tone he used when spoke to her. He didn’t say ‘no’ but he didn’t have to. He was clearly not interested. Blindsided and humiliated, she avoided him completely for several months after that, and she thought that her feelings would go away. For a while, they seemed to have. She got busy with the archives and she was too worried about getting her work done right to even think about such things. However, the churning feeling in her stomach when she thought about him was a clear sign that she was definitely not over Bofur. _I was too forward too fast back then.You have to learn from your mistakes, Dimana. He didn’t know you very well. You just have to work to get to know him better._ So she would. At the very least she would offer her help with the shop situation, with what extra time she could find.

            “Ori, do you think we have time for a little break?”

            He looked at her like she had asked for the moon. “But we just had lunch! I need to go over your cleaning work from this morning. Plus, there’s those scrolls that need to be transcribed. The ones from Thrain’s personal collection.”

            She groaned. “I told you, some of those scrolls are almost impossible to read. We either need a matching copy in better condition or someone who can read between the lines. Who’s that one elf – that one king or something who helped read the map of the mountain – can we get him?”

            Ori rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Dimana. As if we can just page the Lord of Rivendell whenever we can’t figure out which form of transitive case is being used on a three-hundred year old scroll.”

            “Well I don’t know! I can’t do everything at once. If I could clone myself, I would.”

            “Oh speaking of elves,” Dori chirped as he tied up the ribbon containing their dirty dishes. “Apparently there was one at the gates today.”

            “What?” Ori and Dimana said in unison.

            “Oh yes. A rather strange looking one at that, from what I gather. Yellowish-pale and sickly looking, but I don’t buy that. Elves are strong and lithe. If they look weak it’s just an illusion.”

            “What is this elf doing at Erebor?” Dimana said.

            “Can’t really say for sure, but apparently Balin has already met with this particular individual. He has a meeting with them.”

            “Really? When?”

            “Dimana,” Ori interjected. “It’s none of your business.”

            She narrowed her eyes. “I just want to take a peek. I know you lot have seen plenty of elves, but I’ve never seen one up close. When is it, Dori?”

            Dori thought for a moment. “Let’s see the time is around—oh my, is it that late already? Goodness me, I best be getting back home. But I think the elf is already down there now. You couldn’t hear all the commotion going on earlier? Quite intriguing, it is. Everyone’s curious to find out why an elf would willingly come underground to speak to a dwarf. We’re not really on the best of terms, now, are we?”

           

 

 

 


	4. BOFUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When doing things the 'proper' way backfire, Bofur realizes he has to pull out all the stops to track down the vandal that attacked his shop.

BOFUR

 

 

Bofur unwrapped the last crumble of cheese he had packed with him as his stomach rumbled loudly. It was a stilton, and since it was such a strong cheese, he would normally turn his nose up to it if there was nothing else to eat with it. This time, he was too hungry to care. As he savored the last pungent whiff, he heard his name being called.

            “Bofur of the house Ur, you may step forward.”

            _Finally_. He shoveled the last bits of cheese into his mouth and tossed the wrapper into a nearby bin. He had another chuckle when the human called his name. _House Ur, is it? Sounds so unnecessarily fancy._ When he first arrived at the city council hall, they had him fill out a number of papers, and when he brought them up to the desk, they simply could not believe that he would just be called ‘Bofur’ without anything attached to it. When he said belonged to the Ur family, they looked pleased and puzzled at the same time. Perhaps, due to his brand new set of clothes he had bought with some of his reward money, they thought he must belong to some royal dwarven family. That made him want to burst out laughing but instead, he simply smiled. _Hey, if they want to treat me like a prince, who am I to say no?_

However, the princely treatment was stopped dead in its tracks when he approached the front desk.

            “You are Bofur?” said the desk clerk, who looked like he was trying much too hard to appear imposing. With clothes that were a size too big and a head that looked too big for his scrawny body, Bofur couldn’t say that he felt intimidated.

            “Yes, sir. Are you ready for me to present my case?”

            “Your case?”

            “Aye,” Bofur said, trying to figure out if the man was simply slow or just hard of hearing. “Why else would I be called forward?”

            The man raised an eyebrow, as though trying to figure out if Bofur was insulting him. Then, he painstakingly read through the document in front of him.

 _All right, then. Testing my patience, I see. Well, I won’t let him get the better of me_.

            “Ah yes, here it is,” the man said finally. “You wished to set an appointment with the head of security. I’m afraid that’s impossible at the moment. Mr. Bard is booked with appointments until the foreseeable future.”

            “I understand that, but did you read the line down there? The one that says why I need to speak with him?” Bofur was trying his best to not let his annoyance slip into his words, but it was proving to be difficult. He got the distinct feeling that this human clerk was disgusted by just having to talk to him. Maybe Higgs wasn’t too far off. Maybe many of the humans were harboring negative feelings towards his people after all. _What could we possibly have done to make them so angry? And why are they lumping me in with the rotten apples?_

            The clerk paused and took another millennium to read down to where Bofur had indicated on the page. “Unprovoked violence. Vandalism of private property.”

            “Yes,” Bofur said. “I don’t mean to take up his time, I just want to make sure that I can protect what’s mine. You understand, of course.”

            “It’s completely understandable mister Ur, but I’m afraid my answer is still the same. I’m sorry.” The clerk didn’t appear to be very sympathetic when he handed back the sheet of paper.

            His mouth gaped open, not believing what he just heard. “I’m sorry? There must be some misunderstanding.”

            “There isn’t, I assure you.”

            “I’ve been waiting for hours!” Bofur said, a bit more loudly than he wanted, but this was ridiculous. Surely this was some kind of joke.

            “So have many others. Regardless of what your people may think, there are others in much greater need right now.”

            _So that’s the game you want to be playing, is it?_ “Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve already said, I’m not trying to take up his time, but my needs don’t just get thrown out a window because it’s not as important. There are children who frequent this shop — orphan children who have nowhere else to go and no home to speak of because this council has been more concerned about bureaucracy and forms than helping the poor children of this city who go home hungry every damn night.”

            The man’s face tightened in disgust, and Bofur knew that he had blown it. _Damnit Bofur did you have to let him get the better of you? Now he’ll never let you through that door._

            He removed his hat and lowered his voice, attempting to smooth over the situation. “Please. I’m only really concerned about them. And Bard knows me. Surely, he’d be willing to help out a friend? I’m asking you kindly, sir.”

            “Friend, is it? Bard must have so many close friends. We hear that line every day.”

            Bofur’s face reddened. “You can’t just—”

            “Oh but I can,” the man snapped. “Or would you like me to call security? Thank you very much Bofur of House Ur, but you will just have to come back another time. In the meantime, you can hire guards for your little shop. Surely, you can afford it after all?”

            So there it was. They knew that he was one of the ‘Thirteen’, and because of that they assumed he could handle his own problems. _Believe me, human, if I could handle this on my own I would have done it ages ago and without any of your bloody forms either. So this is how the city council of Dale sees me and my kind? Well, then I think that you were more on point than you first thought, Higgs._

            There was only one thing to do, since they were going to make playing by the rules impossible. He was going to pull out a trump card: he was going to secure a private audience with the new King Under the Mountain. His comrade and personal friend, Balin son of Fundin. _You wanted royalty, Dale? Well, you’re going to get it that’s for sure._

 

 

 

            That night, Bofur made sure he wrote down as much as the conversation with the clerk as he remembered, so that he wouldn’t just be rambling nonsense to Balin. He knew that while Balin would believe him, he would still need to present a clear and accurate picture of what happened, without bias. However, recording these details meant that he couldn’t get to other business. He stole a glance at the unopened mail from yesterday sitting on the arm of the chair opposite of him. One of them was from the city about his permit request, and after the ordeal this afternoon he was dreading opening it.

            “Whatcha doin’ uncle Bofur? Aren’t you coming to play with us?” Wylla, his youngest niece had tiptoed behind him and was tugging on one of his hat’s earflaps.

            “Crikes, little lassie, you scared me.” He grinned and twisted his body around so he could tickle her sides. She squeaked in delight and darted around front, plopping down on the chair opposite and folding her little legs underneath her. She saw the unopened mail on the arm of the chair and pointed to it.

           “What’s this?” She picked it up with two fingers as if it might come alive and bite her. “Ew, is this work stuff?”

           “Yes, honey,” he said, his tone growing serious when he was reminded of it. “I’m afraid so. Uncle Bofur has to look at these things and get it all sorted out.” He reached forward and took the two pieces of mail from her. They felt like dead weights in his hands.

           “Why? You work all the day why do you hafta work now?”

           “Because this is extra work. Work that didn’t get finished during the day.”

           “That’s no fair! When will you get to play with us?”

            As she talked, Bofur opened the letter from the city of Dale and skimmed the contents. Just as he suspected, it was bad news.

           “Uncle Bofur!” Wylla said, when she didn’t get her answer right away.

           “Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry darlin’. You’re right, this is boring stuff that you don’t need to bother your pretty head with.” He set the letter and its envelope aide. “Did you see the package I brought over today?”

           “You brought me something!? Oh, where is it? Where? Where? I want it! Show me! Show me!”

           Bofur belly laughed as Wylla launched herself out of the chair and bounced up and down like a jack rabbit. “Oh, look at the little one all excited now that there’s something in it for her. As well you should be — this is one of Bifur’s new toys. I want you to test it out.”

           “New toy! New toy!” She shrieked out, giggling as he took her by the hands and lifted her up so that her feet would be balanced on the top of his boots. He started to sway back and forth, moving his feet carefully so that she would move with him and not fall off. This made her start laughing as well, and it ended with him reaching over to pick her up. As he attempted to do so, his bad back had other ideas. The stab of pain he felt as he tried to pick her up was one of the worst he had ever felt, even worse than the previous night at the shop. Crying out in pain, he stumbled backwards, but managed to let go of Wylla first so she wouldn’t come careening down on him.

           “Uncle Bofur!” She backed away, scared to see him suddenly like this. “What happened?”

           He tried to move, but it hurt too much. “Get your poppa, Wylla. Hurry.” He managed to say between gasps of pain. She nodded and ran up the stairs of the den calling out. Within several minutes, Bofur could hear the plodding steps of his brother.

          “Bomber! Hurry, it’s a bad one.”

          “Bofur? Wylla said you fell.” Bomber poked his head down the stairs and observed Bofur still sprawled on the ground. “Can you move at all?”

          “If I could, do you think I’d be lying here?” Bofur yelled out, the pain making his voice sound angrier than he actually felt.

          “All right, all right, hang on. I’ll send someone for a doctor.”

          “No, don’t do that. Just get Dori. Doesn’t he have that herbal concoction ready to go?”

          “It’s too late for Dori, brother. You need a real doctor.”

           “Like hell I do.”

           “Well if you want to get up and walk to Dori’s door, be my guest, but I’m getting you a doctor at this hour. You’ve got your meeting with Balin tomorrow. You can’t miss that.”

           “Focus, Bomber! Let’s get me walking again. Then I’ll worry about the meeting.”

           “Doctor it is then. So stop distracting me so I can get them over already. Don’t run off anywhere, now.”

            Bofur could only narrow his eyes as Bomber waddled off, chuckling at his last retort. If Bofur didn’t feel that his back was on fire, he might have laughed as well. _Dammit Bomber, you’re actually enjoying this aren’t you? Oh this is going to be a long night._

 

 

 

 

             Getting out of bed the next morning was proof of just that. After the doctor had given him a shot of whiskey and applied some sort of soothing balm to the problem spot that was supposed to ‘numb’ the pain, he had gone to bed thinking he could just fall asleep and not worry about it. Unfortunately, the pain had other plans. His discomfort had increased so much that the ‘numbing’ balm that was given to him was not enough to make it go away. The doctor had also left behind a heavy-duty walking stick in case Bofur needed it. As the sun peeked through the curtains after what seemed like ages of pained waiting, he knew that he would need it. He thought about canceling the meeting with Balin so he wouldn’t have to go through Erebor looking like a cripple, but then that would mean his shop would be closed for longer. He had already arranged with a human worker to fix the glass, but that was no replacement for him being there in person. Plus, where would Molly go if not to his shop? _There you go, Bofur. Suck up your pride. You can do it. For Molly. And Wylla. And all the other little ones. Yes, they’ll make jokes at your expense but it’s a small price to pay._ And with that little pep talk, he took a deep breath and reached for the stick.

             Early that afternoon, he managed to snag a ride with a passing wagon that was headed towards Erebor’s gates with a delivery of produce. Even though it was technically supposed to be a commercial vehicle only, the human driver was kind enough to give him a lift, and even refused the coin that Bofur offered him. This gesture of kindness, however small, managed to lift his spirits, especially after the events of the last couple days.

 _See, Bofur? Humans are fine. There’s a few bad apples, just like in every group, but the majority of them just want to make a bit of coin and settle down into a comfortable life, maybe with a small family if they can afford it. What’s wrong with that?_ At the same time, he was also keenly aware of mob mentality — that is, if a group of people felt that they or their way of life was threatened, they would go to extreme lengths to make sure they got what they thought was rightfully theirs, even if they were being completely led astray. It wouldn’t matter at that point. Large groups of ignorant people could cause irreparable damage. Fear was a great motivator, but it was also a spark that could be used to create wildfires of destruction. He certainly didn’t want to be caught in the middle of that, and so just as the bad behavior of one human shouldn’t sully his opinion of them as a whole, the kind gestures of another shouldn’t fool him into thinking he was out of danger. _Stay focused. You’re not out of the woods yet._

            He was jolted out of his thoughts when the wagon stopped abruptly. “Everything all right up there?” he called out to the driver.

            “There’s some holdup at the gate,” the driver replied. “Do you have an appointment to keep? I don’t know how long this will take.”

 _Bloody hell, what is it now?_ “No worries. I’ll just hop off and see what might be the issue. In fact, don’t wait for me. The guards will know me.”

            “Suit yourself,” the man said.

             Bofur tossed him another coin as a tip and made sure he took it this time. “Thanks again for the lift. Manderly grocers and emporium, was it? I’ll have to stop by sometime. My brother has been asking for some good winter squash, and it’s almost out of season.”

            “Aye, that it is. I’d appreciate the recommendation. Have a good day, master dwarf.”

            “You too.”

            Grabbing his walking stick with one hand, he started to make the painful walk on the path towards the gate. Slowly he trudged past other carts and carriages waiting to make deliveries and other inquiries. Since Erebor had been reclaimed, there had been a ton of other business from human cities outside of dale, not to mention visitors from other dwarven strongholds, including the Iron Hills. Bofur was not one to hold a grudge, but he could not help but grimace at the wagons that held cargo and dignitaries from the Iron Hills. They had, after all, snubbed the quest to reclaim Erebor when Thorin had gone to them for help. And now, all of a sudden, when conveniently, there was no more dragon, they were more than willing to help. If Bofur had learned anything from that adventure, it was that people’s true colors were shown whenever there were especially difficult times. For that, he found it hard to trust the dwarves of the Iron Hills. If he, a simple mining dwarf who had never even seen Erebor, could be persuaded to help his kin when they were in need, why couldn’t they?

           When Bofur finally got to the front, he saw that whatever was holding up the line earlier was in the process of being resolved. There was a lone figure draped in a long grey cloak being let inside to the inner gates. For a brief moment, Bofur had the feeling that he had seen this figure before. Then, it struck him. That cloak. He _had_ seen it before. The night the shop was vandalized. It looked like roughly the same shape and color of the materializing figure he had seen in the horizon — the one that disappeared just as quickly as he had noticed it. Could this be the same person? _Wait. Don’t be jumping to conclusions now. It was a dark night. You wanted to see something so you did. What are the odds that this would be the same person? Next to nothing_.

           “Excuse me? I’d move out of the way before my horse decides you make a better door than a window.”

            “Yes of course,” Bofur apologized and stepped out of the way of one of the drivers. _You’re getting distracted now. Just check in with Balin first and then you can get back to doing business._

 

 

          When he finally made it to the throne room, there was a bit of commotion going inside. A small crowd had gathered around the guards who were supposed to be guarding the doors. They, along with the crowd, were peeking at what was going on inside. Bofur could only hear the muffled echoes of the conversation going on within.

          “Excuse me,” he said, drawing their attention. “What’s going on? I was supposed to have a meeting with Balin at this time. Granted, it took me a bit longer than I anticipated getting here.” He gestured at the walking stick.”

          “Apologies Bofur sir,” said one of the dwarves after bowing quickly in reverence. “We just got side tracked is all. It’s quite unusual, isn’t it?”

          “What is?” he said, straightening his back. He did not like being bowed to, even if it was just a simple gesture of honor for his involvement in Thorin’s company.

           The guard’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard? There’s an elf here. They’re talking to Balin right now. He’s been asking her a lot of questions. Everyone wants to know why she’s here.”

 _An elf lady, then? Interesting._ “That is pretty unusual, you’re right. May I step inside?”

          The guard looked hesitant at first, but there was no way he could be seen denying a hero of Erebor something he wanted. So, the guard stepped aside and cracked open the doors a bit more to let Bofur inside. He crept along the back wall, being as quiet as possible so as not to draw attention to himself. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Dimana, Ori's apprentice, on the other side of the room, also listening intently to the conversation going on in the middle of the room. Sure enough, there was an elf there talking earnestly to Balin. From this distance, he couldn’t tell if Balin was angry or just concentrating on what she was saying. Bofur sat down and decided to do the same.

           “Miss Malweth,” Balin said. “It’s not that I doubt you personally, it’s just that I have many reservations. You tell me that you’ve been trying to help our people for centuries. I am not as old as you, but I am no spring chicken either. Nor am I easily fooled. How come I have never heard of you? You claim that you are your own entity, and it just so happens that I contacts with senior members of your kin. I wrote to Lord Elrond, asking about you, and he did confirm your lone status, but he also expressed concerns in this regard. He said, and I quote, that you were ‘unnecessarily stubborn’ and ‘profoundly antisocial’ when interacting with you. If this is what Lord Elrond, an elf who has been very receptive to all kinds of folk throughout his long life, thinks about you then what I am supposed to think? This is a very crucial time for my people, as I’m sure you know. My days are constantly full trying to address the needs of not just my people, but the humans nearby who interact with them on a daily basis. And I can only watch and attend to so many things. I can’t let a possible security risk slip through my fingers. It would be simply disastrous, and if Lord Elrond can’t vouch for you, who can?”

           “With all due respect, your majesty, Lord Elrond is wise in many things, but I can only imagine that he conferred with King Thranduil before writing that letter to you. I have only interacted with Lord Elrond on a few occasions, and those few instances are not enough to say that he truly knows me. King Thranduil has reasons to dislike me, reasons I will not go into precise detail at the moment, but let me just say that they have to do with what Thranduil considers ‘just and loyal behavior’. I’m sure you know more than anyone how Thranduil treats people he thinks have betrayed him.”

            This gave Balin pause, and he stroked his beard while he thought on her words. The elf maiden wasted no time in capitalizing on that pause.

            “If you really want someone to vouch for me, I can contact Lady Arwen, Elrond’s daughter. I have met her a few times and she has shown me nothing but kindness. Or you can ask the citizens of Dale. Or you can seek Radagast the Brown, someone you know well, and ask him what he thinks. Ask him about how I spent years tending the forest with him, and when the Necromancer brought his evil there I went to get help. But I see now that no amount of letters will change your mind if you have it already made up, so let me just say a few more things in my defense: if you have any reason to doubt my intentions, let these words be an honest and impassioned way to make them fully clear. As an elf who is fully educated on my kin’s past behavior, I know all too well the horrors we’ve committed against your race. Atrocities that you have been reluctant to forgive. As well you should. The deceit surrounding Nauglamír. The Battle of a Thousand Caves at Menegroth, which many say is the start of one of the longest racial feuds the world has ever known. Then, of course: the decimation of Erebor and Thranduil’s refusal to help. These things are more than just grievances to you. They are instances that threatened the very future of your people. You have every right to hold a grudge against the way my people acted towards you, and I am not suggesting that me offering help will excuse those atrocities in any way.

           But at the risk of sounding trite, I offer only one defense: I am only eight-hundred and ninety years old, and I am not like them. Easy for you to say, you may claim, and I agree. For after all, if an elf has not pledged unwavering loyalty towards her own people why should you trust her to pledge loyalty to anyone else? I’ll tell you why: because the very same reasons you hold reservations towards elves is the same reason why I’ve lived on my own for so long. You were rejected by my kin? So was I rejected by them, for being different and not bending backwards to do whatever it is they wanted. It is for this reason that I have lived a lifetime on my own instead of suffering the insult of their company. I was not supposed to happen. By all accounts, there should have been no elves born for the last two thousand years. And yet, I am here. I defied their expectations, and as you can see, I defied their standards for what is considered normal ‘behavior and appearance’ for an elf. I am the person that should not be, and yet I still am. So I ask, when presented with a life that should not be, and yet is, what would you have me do with it? For myself, I figured I might start by making an effort to right the wrongs that my kin have committed towards your people. I can’t promise that I’ll always be right, or that I’ll always be perfect. But I can promise that I will be humble. With this precious life that I have been given, I should try to make something better of it. And I’ll start here — by being an unofficial ambassador of elves towards dwarves. I wish to help you, Balin son of Fundin, by helping in whatever capacity you see fit to restore this beacon of dwarven culture and wealth to its former glory. Will you give me a chance to prove it to you, or will you let other people’s opinions decide it for you?”

           By the time she was done talking, Bofur could have dropped a pin on the floor and everyone would have heard it — that’s how quiet it had gotten. He had been watching her intently. He could not see her face, since her back was to him, but he saw her arms and hands moving as she spoke. Clearly, she was passionate about all of this, and from what he could tell, she seemed to be telling the truth. He tore his eyes away from her to look at Balin, who was leaning so far forward he was almost falling off. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.

          “Is that all?”

          “I—um,” she stammered for a moment. “Yes, that’s all. Thank you for listening.” She bowed one last time.

           By his tone, Bofur thought that Balin had made up his mind, and was going to send her away. However, Balin stroked his beard, leaned back into his throne, and smiled. Then what he said next made Bofur glad that he was sitting down.

          “Welcome to Erebor then, Malweth, the lone elf. And congratulations. You’re the first elf that’s been allowed a temporary residency in these sacred halls. Now run along and get your orders. And don’t make me regret my decision.” 


	5. MALWETH

MALWETH

 

 

For a moment, she couldn’t believe that she had done it. She had gotten in. She must have been standing there in silence longer than she thought, because she heard a sharp crack of metal against the slate throne that jolted her out of her thoughts.

          “Did you not hear me, elf? I said, don’t make me regret my decision.”

          “Oh yes, of course I heard you, your majesty. I am just overwhelmed by your generosity,” her voice cracked as she bowed. _What’s this? Lost your ability to function because things actually went your way for once?_ She wouldn’t say it, but that speech was her last ditch effort to try to convince Balin to agree to her proposal. In his letters, Balin was nothing but cordial, but he was also evasive when it came to answers. She had a feeling this ‘public trial’ of sorts would be coming.

          “Yes, well,” he said, grunting softly. “I have been around both good and bad elves, so I’m willing to give you a chance. A chance, is all. Don’t think you can roam everywhere in these sacred halls all on your own. You’ll need to record your daily duties in a ledger, and you need to check in with the gate guards before going in and out of Erebor. I’ll also need a report of your progress and future goals twice a month. If possible, I would also like to set you up with a mentor, so that those goals can be worked out. Here, I’ve explained everything in this document. Go give this to Ori in the archives. You said you have worked a lot with restoring ancient documents? They could use your help there, but I would also like you to be on call and ready to help for any other duties that I may see fit. There are still a lot of veterans living with daily pain from their injuries. Even if have half the ability of some of your kin, you can probably do more for them than some of us can. Run along, now. The guards will show you the way.”

           It was a lot to take in at once, but she got the general idea. Balin was indeed taking no chances. The gate check was a bit excessive, but it didn’t matter. She was in. “Thank you very much.” She took the document and turned around to head out, trying hard to contain her excitement. As she walked to the door where one of the guards was waiting for her, she passed by a dwarf who was sitting cross legged on the ground. He wore a trapper’s cap with long ear flaps that was lined with mink fur. As she stole a glance at him, he locked eyes with her, and then grinned.

          “Welcome, miss.” He said, then cupped one hand next to his mouth as he whispered the rest. “And don’t let him get to you. His bark is ‘oft worse than his bite.”

           She gave him a shy smile, and wanted to say something in return, but the guard grunted at her, reminding her that they needed to keep going. When she turned back to nod in thanks to the friendly dwarf, he was busy trying to get up off the floor. She noticed the way in which he struggled with simply getting up, and her brow furrowed in concern. She wished she could do more to help as she was led out of the throne room and on towards the archives. As she walked along the narrow ledges and precarious stone bridges, she could hear the distant clanging of pickaxes against stone echoing off the deep caverns below. She wondered how far they would get down today, and if they would ever dig deep enough to unearth another demon relic of the past. The dwarves were as hard and stubborn as they rock they were made from, but she had to give them credit. No matter what evils they had experienced in the past. No matter how much suffering they had to go through, they still kept going. They continued to dig, no matter how slow the process. Chip by chip. Millimeter by millimeter.  _In order to get through to them, I will need that kind of persistence._ She would become a pickaxe, and she mustn’t stop digging even if the rock starts chipping away at her. _Hmm. That’s almost poetic. Lumdir would proud.  I would hope so anyway._ But like many things, it was much easier to sound lofty and poetic than to follow through those words through to fruition.

            The guards stopped abruptly at an imposing looking corkscrew staircase that winded around so tightly she could not see to the bottom of it. When she craned her neck to look over the railing, she felt dizzy almost immediately.

            “Here you are,” the guard said. “Best not make the Hero Ori wait.”

            Her ears perked up when he said this. “So I am to work with one of the Thirteen after all? I wasn’t sure if that was the same Ori His Majesty had assigned to me. I am honored to hear it.”

            “Well you may not get the honor after all if you keep lagging behind like this. What are you waiting for? You’re not scared of a little steps are you?”

            Her smile vanished when her enthusiasm was met with such harshness. It was then that she realized that getting in was the easy part. Approval and acceptance were entirely separate things. And completely out of her control. “No of course not. Thanks again for showing me the way.”

            They turned around and said no more to her as she stared at the plunging gap below and worked up the courage to take the first step. Even though they were well out of ear-shot of the average person, she could clearly hear them snickering to themselves about something. She tried not to be paranoid and think it was about her. _Not everything is about you, after all. They probably just want a bit of fun at your expense and then forget about you. Well, I’m used to that am I not? Being forgotten isn’t so bad. I only wish I could forget just as easily_. For a brief moment, fragmented memories swirled around in her head, flashing back and forth between faces and sounds of a time long past. Of people long gone. This was the price of choosing to spend her time with mortals, and she had already paid it many times. Perhaps the guarded nature of the dwarves would be good for her. Maybe it would help her not to get too attached to them. They lived longer than humans, but their lives were still brief flashes of light in comparison to her own.

            With that in mind, she made the trek down the twisting steps slowly but surely, only losing her balance one or two times when she misjudged the distance between steps.  She reached what looked like a dead end, until she remembered that dwarf doors were often invisible. If these archives were as scared as she supposed they might be, then that would be all the more reason to keep the entrances to them a well-guarded secret. _Well that’s all well and good but how am I to get in?_ She thought knocking would be pointless, since the door was made of stone, and when she tried to think of the few khuzdul words that she had read in the ancient tome she had rescued, she was afraid that she would say them wrong, or worse: say something that would get her thrown into the stocks. So she opted for a simple greeting in Common that was universal for any person stuck in an unfamiliar place:

            “Hello? Is anyone there? I seem to be lost. Hello, Mr. Ori? I’m the elf sent over by King Balin to help you. Are you in there?”

            She was greeted with silence, and the longer she stood there, the more stupid she felt, and she was beginning to suspect that the guards had led her to a dead end on purpose. It would be just her luck after all that this was all some sort of joke. However, when she was ready to call out one last time, the wall shook in front of her and a keyhole materialized in the center, followed by the outlines of the door. “Well look at that,” she said, completely awe struck. “Isn’t that marvelous.”

            From the other side of the door, she heard a female dwarf. “See? I told you I wasn’t crazy, Ori. There’s someone on the other side!”

            “I don’t believe it. No one has ever used that entrance before. I’m not even sure I was aware of it until now. It’s not on my maps!”

            When the door started to open, the head of the female dwarf peeked out from the other side. She had very light blonde hair and a thin face, thinner than most of the dwarves Malweth had seen so far. Her eyes were large in a gorgeous light blue hue, and there was a smattering of blonde peach fuzz underneath her chin and on her upper lip. Her hair, unlike other dwarfs, was in one simple French braid so that her soft, oval-shaped face was more prominent. As the door opened the rest of the way, Malweth saw that she was not as plump as other dwarves either, but still had a curvy hourglass figure. With full lips, hips, and breasts, she was very lovely, and Malweth was convinced that she would turn the heads of human men in addition to her own dwarf kinsmen.

            “Guess your maps were wrong,” the dwarf woman said as she sized up Malweth. “As usual,” she added, under her breath.

            Remembering her manners, Malweth bowed before stepping through the door. “Hello. I hope I have not interrupted anything.”

            “Dimana,” Ori called out. “Who is it?”

            “It’s the elf woman,” Dimana said, keeping her eyes fixed on Malweth. “The one who was just speaking with Balin. That’s why I was out of breath when I came back. I ran straight here as soon as Balin said she’d be working with us.”

            “Oh really? The elf Dori spoke of is here right now? How fascinating!”

            He shuffled over to where Malweth stood on the other side of the door and raised his monocle up, as though she were a newly discovered botanical specimen to examine.

            “My my,” he said. “Well he was not wrong about her appearance.”

            He yelped out in pain when Dimana kicked him squarely in the shins. “Aiyee! What was that for?”

            “For being rude. You don’t talk about how people look in front of them.”

            “No it’s all right,” Malweth said, sensing the tension between them immediately. She didn’t want a crisis on her hands on her first day. “I’m rather used to it. More than that, I understand that’s very strange to have an elf in your working quarters. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Malweth. I was raised in Mirkwood but consider myself a permanent traveler and wanderer, as well as a lover of all cultures. I’m honored to have the chance to help you, Ori, one of the Thirteen. I hope I can prove useful to you.”  

            “Wow,” Dimana said. “So your speech down there wasn’t a shtick. You really talk like that all the time don’t you?”

             Malweth shifted her weight and tilted her head slightly. “Beg pardon? Talk like what?”

             “Like how I thought an elf would talk.” Dimana paused after saying this, then the corners of her mouth twitched and she let out a rippling laugh that shook her whole body. Malweth wasn’t quite sure how she should interpret that, but soon after she had settled down, Dimana made herself clear. “That’s fantastic. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing _at_ you necessarily it’s just so fitting. You’re exactly how I expected you would be. I don’t know if you saw, but I was in the throne room when you made your impassioned speech to Balin. It didn’t fall on deaf ears, and I wanted to make that clear right way. However, in saying that, I don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations about being here; there’s still many of us that act as if we’re still in the first age. And good vibes will do little to wipe out centuries of prejudice. So, if we’re going to be working together, you will promise me that you’ll make a good impression, won’t you? Keep your head down and do your work without question.”

              “Y-yes of course,” Malweth said, clearing her throat. She was back to feeling nervous again, but at least this was something she was used to. “I’ll do my very best every day. You have no idea how happy I am to have an opportunity like this. I won’t fail you.”

              “Good. Ori, shouldn’t you start writing up an agenda for Malweth?”

              “Hmm?” Ori still seemed distracted by Malweth’s unusual appearance, but his back straightened and suddenly he was all about business again. “Yes, of course. Oh, it’s great to have some more help!”

              While Ori ran off, chatting lightly to himself, Dimana gestured Malweth to lean in. “Oh, and another thing,” she said. “Don’t ever call Ori ‘One of the Thirteen’ ever again. His ego will bloat out of control and could possibly explode. And let me tell you: it’s not going to me cleaning up that mess. No way. Hey, you coming in or what? Let’s go! There’s books to dust, inventory to manage, and scrolls to clean. A tedious job, but someone’s got to do it. Welcome to the archives, Malweth. Oh, and watch your head; you’re freakishly tall and it worries me. Come on, come on!”

              Grinning widely, Malweth ducked her head and followed Dimana. _Well, I do believe that’s the first time I’ve ever been called tall. I could get used to that._  

 

              The rest of the day was mostly spent going over the dizzying protocol Ori had set in place for working with the older documents. It was all stuff she knew already, and she tried to tell them this — that she had worked in the same type of capacity while she was still living in Thranduil’s halls — but they just brushed it off, assuming that the methods by which dwarf and elves kept their archives were completely different. There were a few minor differences, like with the type of lighting used when transcribing texts, but these were just preferences. In reality, when it came down to it, preserving ancient and sacred texts was the type of skill that transcended racial barriers. Whenever she thought of something to interject, having learned a better way in which to do things, she had to bite her tongue. She was here to listen, not to instruct. At least not on the first day. _I really must try to sneak in a beeswax candle to use instead of those kerosene lamps. Don’t they realize how flammable they are? We don’t want another disaster on our hands. The candles give off a less harsh light. Better for fading ink._ But these things would have to wait. Oddly enough, after all this instruction, she was tired and hungry, so after checking out with Ori and finding out where she would be staying, she managed to follow a group of other hungry individuals to the mess hall, where dinner was being served. Dimana had told her that she would be down to eat as well, but that she had some additional things to attend to. Malweth was fond of Dimana already. She was a little crass at times, but she liked how outspoken and ambitious she was. It would serve her well. _Dare I hope to have made a friend in her? It would be more than I could ever ask for, that’s for sure._

           The food was hearty and simple: aged pork sausage and golden potatoes with pickled cabbage. She tried to avoid making a scene, but it was hard to do that in a crowd of working dwarves who were still sober. She could feel their eyes upon her within minutes of her arrival. She got her food as quickly as possible then headed to an open table by the fireplace. A group of dwarves were eating at one end. When she sat down, they paused their discussion immediately and watched her with morbid curiosity. Then, others began to wander over to her table to see what the fuss was about. First they whispered amongst each other. Then, as the room got more crowded, they spoke out loud about her.  Their words weren’t kind, but she had heard them so many times that they had little effect on her, so she continued to eat in silence. _At least they aren’t beating around the bush about it._ Still, it made her not want to waste any time with her food so she could get back to her quarters without being the center of attention.

           “Is it even alive? How does it walk in the sun?”

           “Why do you think it came here? There’s no sunlight to be found underground.”

           “But we never asked for it to come.”

           “Is it a man or a woman? I can’t tell.”

           “It has red eyes. That’s bad luck, I tell you. Bad luck. Know what else had red eyes? The Great Fire Demon of Moria.”

           “Fire demon? Just look at it. I bet I could snap it in half with a flick of my wrist.”

           “I’m losing my appetite just looking at it. Are we sure that’s even an elf? It’s so short. It can’t be more than half a meter taller than me.”

           “Whatever it is, it sure appears to be deaf.”

           “Hey Red Eyes, are you a blood drinker or are you simply allergic to sunlight?”

           She knew that they were not expecting her to respond to these questions, however harsh and pointed they might seem. They just wanted to earn the raucous laughter of their peers, and that they got. Perhaps if she had come here when she was still young and sensitive, she would have turned beet red and they would have laughed at her some more, but the words bounced off like rubber against a stone. It was as if she was watching all of this from outside her body. In fact, she had distanced herself so much from it that she didn’t see a different dwarf come closer and actually say something directly to her.

           “Is anyone sitting here?”

           “Excuse me?” She was too startled to say anything else.

          The dwarf took that as a no and sat down across from her. He looked around the room and scrunched his nose as though suppressing a sneeze. That’s when she realized that this was the same dwarf she had passed when leaving the throne room. He was still wearing his funny hat, but at this distance she could see that there were two long braids underneath the cap, as well as an impressive handlebar moustache that took over half of his face. Surprisingly, his chin was only covered by a small patch of facial hair. This was unusual for a dwarf, who often prided themselves in their beards. Dwarf beards operated as if they were their own entities, and were almost more popular than the ones who grew them. So it was surprising to see this male dwarf without one. Perhaps he was still young.

          “It’s freezing over here,” he said, rubbing his hands together. The ends of his fingers stuck out from between fraying fingerless gloves that looked hand-knitted. “Aren’t you cold? Here, let me add more firewood.”

          “What?” Confused, her eyes followed him as he got up and went behind her to where the hearth was. It was then that she noticed that the ‘fire’ was just a steaming pile of embers. “Oh, I see. I guess I’m used to the cold. You don’t have to do that — I can get more wood for you.”

         “Don’t bother, I’m already up.” He grinned and then reached into a large steel box that had more planks of wood. As he lined them up in front of him to place onto the embers, she caught sight of the curved ends of his cap flopping like bunny ears as he bent down to place them on the fire and then stood back up. She had to smile at this. Most of the dwarves she had seen today were so serious; he seemed to be the furthest thing from that.

         “You really don’t have to,” she said, as he rolled up a piece of parchment paper and crouched down to blow air into it to stoke the fire. “Are you sure you aren’t waiting for someone?”

         He checked to make sure the logs caught fire, and then simply shrugged. “Nope. It’s just me. I’m just grabbing a bit of dinner before I head back home.” He leaned back and sat down on the ledge beside me, his body turned sideways to her. There was a cheeky grin on his face and a spot of grey ash on his forehead and nose. It must have been kicked up when he blew into the fire. She wondered if she should say anything or not, but she was still surprised that he was even talking to her in the first place. He was definitely the friendliest dwarf she had met so far, even more so than Dimana and Ori. He was friendlier than most humans, even, but instead of feeling relaxed over that, she felt wary. She wasn’t sure how she should respond.

        As if reading her thoughts, the grin on his face disappeared and he spoke in a lower, more serious tone.

        “Listen,” he said, “I want to apologize for them.”

        “Beg pardon? Apologize for whom?”

        “You know,” he said, not fazed by her slowness to pick up on the obvious. “ _Them._ ” He jerked his head to the side, which made the strings at the ends of his floppy hat flick around rapidly. She was distracted by it for a second; it struck her as such a comical action that contrasted with his very serious apology that she almost burst out laughing. She managed to suppress her laughter and force a really concerned, serious expression so he wouldn’t feel as though she was making fun of him. She followed the tilt of his head until she saw the group that had been insulting her earlier. She realized then that he must have gone out of his way to come over here and talk to her, not to mention in a room full of his peers. That touched her deeply, and she could not help but smile at him.

        “Oh them,” she said, turning back to him. “It’s all right.”

         “Are you sure? I know you’re new here, and you stand out a bit.”

         “Right. The pale thing. I get that people will talk. It’s to be expected.”

         “No, I mean you being an elf and all. The first one to stay here, as Balin said. Now, I know he was interrogating you a bit back there but I want to tell you also that he means well. I just don’t want you to think that just because we’re guarded, we’re not welcoming.”

         “I don’t think that at all. But, I do have to admit it’s been awhile since I’ve had this much scrutiny.”

         “Once the newness wears off they’ll go back to gossiping over the latest scandal, mark my words. They don’t mean any harm.”      

         She smiled. He really didn’t have to do all of this, but she was grateful to him nonetheless. “I’m glad to hear it, Mister…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

          He smacked his forehead. “Of course! I should have introduced myself already. Apologies. I’m Bofur.” He extended his hand out to her. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, elf. I heard your speech in the throne room. It was very good.”

          She raised an eyebrow. “You’re the second person to tell me that today. I guess my private meeting with Balin wasn’t private at all.”

         “Well, I did say that we do like our gossip.” He winked at her, and she lowered her eyes, not knowing what to do with so much direct eye contact. His hand was dry and cracked around the edges when she shook it, which meant that he was probably of the working class. That might be why he was much more informal with her. Despite the roughness, his handshake was gentle, but firm. He was obviously very confident to approach her as he did. She liked that. “Well, it’s nice to meet you anyway, Bofur. And in case you didn’t hear it, or don’t remember, my name is Malweth.”

          “Malweth, is it? What does that mean in elvish?”

          “Oh it’s very easy to remember. It describes what I look like. It means The Pale One.”

          “Oh I see,” he said politely, but she could tell that any more on the subject might bore him. In fact, she feared he might be bored already. She hastened to change the subject.

         “It was you I passed in the throne room, wasn’t it? Did you also have business with King Balin?”

         Bofur was taking a big sip of his beer and after hearing that, he spit it out in a fine mist and started coughing immediately. She was hit by the mist as well, but only a little. She was more concerned for him and the looks that they were starting to get.

         “Did I say something wrong?”

         “Miss,” he said between strained breaths. “You can’t be saying stuff like that while I’m drinking. You’ll drown me in my own drink.”

          Frowning, she stood up and wiped the table in front of him where he had spilled. “I’m sorry. I won’t say it again, whatever it was.” She grabbed some of her water and offered it to him. He shook his head.

          “You don’t understand,” he said after he had calmed down a bit more. “It’s not that you said something wrong.” He sucked in another deep breath to clear out the rest of his lungs and coughed the hardest yet, which then made him lean forward and wince in pain. “Blimey, not again.” He rubbed his back and groaned.  

          She was really worried now. “Are you all right?”

          He waved off her concern. “It’s nothing. Just twisted my back the wrong way ‘round earlier. Don’t trouble yourself.”

          “Are you sure?”

          “Positive. Now, as I was saying, the reason why I found it so funny is that no one around here, well no one that matters anyway, calls that ‘ol white beard Balin ‘King Balin’. Well, not unless they want something. Then they’d be those old sods from the Iron Hills. We’ve had plenty of those around recently. Trying to leech what they can get from the treasure while they still can.”

           Back on her side of the table, she sat thoughtfully while he spoke. “The dwarves of the Iron Hills. Thorin Oakenshield had approached them for help when trying to take back Erebor, but they refused. Isn’t that right?”

           He nodded his head at her, impressed. “Yes, that’s them. To be fair they’ve changed their tune a lot, and not all of them just because of the gold. Still, some wounds take longer to heal.”

           She wasn’t sure, but she suspected he might be referring to the death of Thorin Oakenshield, which had been over two years ago now, but since he had been such a hero to the dwarven community, she wouldn’t be surprised if this pain was still fresh in a lot of their minds. She offered him a moment of silence and a bowed head out of respect.

          “There I go, talking about the past again to someone who wasn’t there.”

          “I know exactly what you mean. The past is all I’ve known for many years. That’s why I’m hoping to make a better future.”

           He gave her a curious expression — she wasn’t sure if he found that statement enlightening or depressing. _There you go again, making the conversation heavier than it needs to be_. But she needn’t have worried. In the next moment, he cracked a smile and raised his mug to her.

          “That’s a great way to look at it. I’ll drink to that. Why don’t I order you a pint as well and you can ask me all the questions you’re afraid to ask the other dwarves. Come on, I know you’ve got a few on the tip of your tongue.” He raised both his eyebrows up and down as the lower half of his face disappeared as he went for another long sip of beer.

          She folded her arms and leaned onto the table. “That’s quite a generous offer Bofur, but I probably shouldn’t stay too late. I promised someone I would make a good impression on my first day.”

          “Well,” he said, setting his mug down. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, looking her directly in the eyes again. This time, she didn’t feel the urge to look away. “I’d say you were successful there.”

           She broke eye contact when she felt the familiar and uncomfortable feeling of blood rising up to her cheeks. She had also noticed that the room had gotten a lot quieter. Others had begun to notice the pale elf and the dwarf talking to each other on their own in a corner of the room. She looked past his shoulder and saw the group whispering among themselves and pointing. As friendly as Bofur was, maybe it was not in his best interest to associate with her. At least while she was still under suspicion. She did her best to make a graceful exit.

           “Well, I hope you’re right.” She gathered what little she had carried down with her as she got ready to leave. “And good luck with all your endeavors. Perhaps we’ll talk again soon.”

           “Oh I’m sure we will. I heard that you would be working at the archives. I visit Ori there often. You sure you don’t have time for a pint? Their stout here is magnificent.”

           “I’ll take you up on your offer another time. I’m actually rather tired. It was lovely to meet you, Bofur. Take care, and be careful with your back.”

           As she turn to make a quick escape, she found herself resisting the urge to look back at him in that funny hat one last time. And that, more than anything that had happened the entire day, worried her more than anything. 


End file.
